Worth A Thousand Words
by SiBheagSiMhor
Summary: Torrhen Stark bent the knee- but it was his eyes that told the truth.


_It is over._ No lives had been lost; no blood had yet been spilled. But to Torrhen Stark of Winterfell, King in the North, there was no doubt. _It is over._

Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, hesitated. Atop the horizon stood the united forces of the North, some thirty thousand soldiers strong. Behind him he could hear the hushed whispers of his soldiers, excited and confident. Aegon could sense the reason for their high spirits. It was less that they outnumbered the Northmen three to two and more the presence of Balerion, his beloved pet and childhood companion; now a dragon the size of a ship, the wingspan and frame of the Black Dread inspired awe in foe and friend alike. The reaction of the opposing force was indiscernible at the moment, and Aegon chose to wait.

Across the plain, thoughts of the beast weighed no less on the mind of Torrhen Stark. He had heard the rumors of the Targaryen dragons, and as much as he had wanted to dismiss the fearsome depictions as products of soldiers' tall tales, the truth lay in front of him, unavoidable in its implications. This was an enemy he could not defeat, a force he could not stop. His men, for all their courage and stoicism, were poorly armed to fight a dragon and even more poorly trained to do so; their swords and arrows, along with their screams, would be consumed by the blaze erupting from the black jaws. Aegon's forces numbered fifteen thousand more; additionally, his army had the power of dragonfire and the experience to press every advantage it wrought. Torrhen glanced around him, and the sight of his subjects brought surfacing memories, images of families and lives each their own. At the utterance of a single word, these men would obey. They would charge, they would fight, they would die. Swords and fire, not the loving embraces of wives and children, would be the last thing his soldiers would see. In the back of his mind, a small voice told Torrhen: _you know what you must do._

_What would my father think? His father before him? _echoed in Torrhen Stark's mind. Since the time of Brandon the Builder, the Starks were the Kings in the North, and he would be the last. He did not misjudge Aegon's strength; nor did he doubt the dragon lord's capabilities as a ruler. Why, then was this so difficult? _Pride, you and your damned Stark pride,_ whispered the voice again. _Swallow it, you fool._ But try as he could, the ramifications of the action he had to undertake were lodged in his conscience, a splinter impossible to dislodge. _I will shame to my ancestors and their name. They will jeer and call me Stark, the King who Knelt._ Fantastical visions of challenging Aegon to single combat and dying in the same way as the last Storm King- _fighting_-flashed through his mind. As the world he knew spun into oblivion,the only constant to Torrhen Stark at the moment was the voice: _you know what you must do, for your family, for Winterfell, for your people._

It was time.

After what seemed to be an eternity perched on the perilously thin fence between peace and violence, Aegon knew the answer. A lone figure walked across the plain, inching closer and closer. Though he did not physically express it, Aegon Targaryen was awash with relief; while he did not fear battle, unnecessary bloodshed weighed poorly on his sense of justice. The sight before him was familiar; Loren Lannister and Sharra Arryn had surrendered in much the same fashion, but something was different. In the eyes of the previous regents, Aegon had grown accustomed to seeing fear mixed with loathing. However, as Torrhen Stark approached the head of the Targaryen host, Aegon could discern a jumbled multitude of emotions, chief among them a sense of dignity rare among those who chose his path.

The bronze crown shone brightly, basking in the same northern sunlight that had graced Brandon the Builder's coronation thousands of years ago, as Torrhen Stark slowly removed it from his head without so much as a tremble of the hand. Despite the predictable implications, all seventy-five thousand soldiers watched history unfold with bated breath. The crown, outstretched in Torrhen's hands, lowered with his body. In one slow but fluid motion, Torrhen Stark had knelt.

Lying in bed on the night after his coronation, Aegon, King of Westeros, dreamt true. In that moment when his hands touched the bronze crown of the Kings of Winter, his amethyst eyes met the deep, unwavering grey of Torrhen Stark's, and he knew. This was not a man driven by a lust for power or a selfish arrogance; this was a leader who put his people, his family, and his honor before his own pride. In that last act as King in the North, Torrhen Stark proved himself a true king.

On that day, Torrhen Stark had spoken nary a word- but for Aegon I Targaryen, once glance was all he ever needed to know.


End file.
